


My First Magnus Archives Fic Be Gentle

by taylor_tut



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sick Character, Sickfic, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:42:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24593221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taylor_tut/pseuds/taylor_tut
Summary: I became Possessed(TM) with the idea of Jon not being able to tell the difference between needing to read a statement and being just regular human sick, and therefore pushing himself to work even more because he's not feeling well. Martin tries to help, then guilts Tim into helping.
Comments: 16
Kudos: 326





	1. Chapter 1

Martin is always loud as he enters a room. Really, everyone at the Institute is, as almost everyone is fairly easily startled and make a conscious effort not to sneak up, but while this is a learned habit by the others, for Martin, it's just his nature. 

Jon is sitting at the cluttered desk in the archive room where he records statements but presently without one in his hand. 

When Martin forces the door open, Jon jumps harder than Martin thinks is really necessary. 

"Oh, Jon. I didn't know you were..." he trails off, hoping that Jon will finish that sentence, but he doesn't. Instead, he curses, looking angry and then appearing to realize he's been zoning out. "What, erm, if I may ask, ARE you doing?"

Jon takes a deep, steadying breath to regain his composure, then lets it out as a discontented sigh. "I was about to start recording," he replies, but Martin can tell it's not true. However, Jon doesn't appear to be hiding anything other than embarrassment, so Martin believes that he's lying to cover up a nap rather than a scheme. It's one of the few pleasant surprises he's received from Jon, well, ever, really, and he smiles patiently. 

"Would you like me to bring you one?" he asks, because Jon looks truly exhausted, and he is soft. Jon hesitates, then nods. 

"Thank you, Martin," he says. "That would be helpful." 

There's something in his tone, something beige and tired and almost reluctant, that makes him pause. 

"Are you alright?"

Jon, predictably, glares. "Fine," he snaps, pushing to his feet. "I can get the statement myself--"

Upright, Jon wavers for a moment, one hand flying up to his forehead faintly, and the pinkish flush of his cheeks drains to a concerning grey. 

"Jon!" Martin fusses, rushing to his side. Jon waves him off before he can even touch him, before he can even get near enough to get a good look, but he doesn't press forward because it does appear as though he's found his center of balance, even if he is still shaky and pale. 

"Don't," he commands when Martin opens his mouth to suggest that perhaps he should lie down for a bit. Against his will, he shuts it with a click of his teeth. 

"Are you ill? Do you think you should go lie down? I can help you to the cot." 

"No," John denies. "It's just... been a few days since I've read a statement. Too long, I suppose."

"Oh?" Martin presses. "Why's that?"

Jon shakes his head as he eases himself back into the chair, where he slumps so quickly that for a moment, Martin is worried he's actually fainted, until he speaks. 

"Just... haven't felt like it." 

Martin nods. "They're exhausting," he agrees. "Draining. And you don't look like you've got much in you to drain to begin with." 

Jon nods. Martin melts where he stands. It's upsetting to see Jon like this, as he's always so composed and reluctant to show any weakness. He must really be feeling poorly. 

"Let me get you a statement to read," Martin insists, "and some tea. Would you eat something if I brought it?" 

Jon's face blanches again, and even though that's clearly a hard pass, it also means he probably hasn't eaten today, so Martin decides to make him some white toast and hope he'll at least try to eat. 

"Right," he says, "alright. I'll be back in a minute. Will you be alright alone?" 

Jon scoffs and glares, so Martin chooses to hurry out of the room instead of waiting for the inevitable sarcastic reply. 

He moves as quickly as he can. If this is really withdrawal, then Jon will only feel worse the more time he has to wait to read the statement. In any case, Martin would place money on a bet that Jon is feeling worse than he's letting on. 

Tea first, he decides, switching the electric kettle on and searching through the cabinets for the biggest mug he can find. Jon had looked like he'd been sweating, possibly even feverish, so he needed the fluids. Though Jon doesn't take sugar in his tea, Martin adds a nice, thick spoonful of honey to the bottom of the cup. Sweet things were always easier to force down when he didn't feel like having anything in his stomach, after all. He places a bag of herbal tea in the bottom of the mug to await the boiling of the kettle, then moves on to make two pieces of toast, slicing them on the diagonal and drizzling those with just the lightest whisper of honey, too. Jon would complain about it. He doesn't care. 

When the kettle is boiling, Martin pours the water and lets it steep, tracking down a statement folder in the meantime. He doesn't really have the stomach for reading them, but even so, he skims each one for content, putting a few he deems too disturbing back on the shelf before finally finding one that, while not pleasant, at least doesn't feature rotting flesh or swarms of things. He's hoping that Jon might be able to get some sleep after he's finished recording. 

Tucking the folder under his arm, Martin and carefully balances the tea in one hand and the plate of toast in the other before heading back into the archive storage. 

This time, he opens the door quietly and frowns at what he sees--Jon has his head down, resting on his folded arms on the table in front of him. Even from the door, he can see him shivering, too hard to be asleep. 

"Jon?" he calls gently, forcing a small smile when Jon quickly perks up quickly in alarm, then winces. Martin's eyebrows furrow when he jams a thumb harshly against his eye socket. "Head bothering you?" he surmises, which only earns him a shrug. "That's a yes, then." Setting the tea and toast down allows him to get close enough to really look at his face, pale and pinched in discomfort and, indeed, flushed with what must be a fever. "Seriously, Jon, I think maybe you should--"

"Thank you, Martin," Jon curtails, but there's no heat to it. He breathes in the steam from the tea as he takes it in his shaking hands, pressing his palms to it to absorb the heat. His leery eyeing of the toast tells Martin to place it a bit farther from him on the end of the table. Maybe he'll feel well enough to eat it after the statement. Jon is gentle, weak when he takes the folder from his hands, appearing not to be hungry for that, either, but more willing to give it a try. 

"If you need anything, just call for me," Martin instructs. "Can I get you anything else?" 

Jon shakes his head slowly. His blinking is long and slow, like he's struggling to pull his eyes open again after each one, and his hand has found its way to his temple and is pressing hard. 

"Thank you, really," he repeats, and Martin grins shyly. 

"You've already said that." 

"It's worth repeating." 

Martin flushes. "It's nothing. Just... don't overdo it, alright? If you're still not feeling well after the statement, tell someone." 

Although he's not certain it's a real promise, Jon nods, and Martin takes his leave. 

When Tim arrives an hour and a half later, Martin is sitting in the break room, still waiting for any word from Jon that will put his mind at ease enough for him to go home. He's already broken into the secret stash of snacks that he's kept hidden in the back of a cabinet (though, if he's told each person who works here individually exactly where it is and to help themselves, is it really a secret?) since he's been here for nearly 11 hours now, but he can't bring himself to leave. Jon can take care of himself; he knows that. It's not enough. 

"Hi, Martin," Tim greets cheerfully as he hangs up his wet coat. "What are you still doing here? I thought you'd have gone home by now." 

Martin purses his lips, stuck for words. He knows that Tim and Jon haven't exactly been on the best of terms lately, but there's no one else he can talk to, and he desperately wants to talk. 

"I would have done," he agrees, "but I'm waiting for Jon." 

Tim looks a bit puzzled. "Jon?" Martin nods. "He's not in yet?" 

"He's in the archives," Martin explains, "but he's... well, he's not well. He said that he needed a statement earlier, thought it was withdrawal, I guess, but I'm--"

"You're worried about him." 

"Yes."

Tim sighs. Whatever is going on with him and Jon, Martin is a weak spot for him. "How unwell is he?" 

"I can't be sure. It's Jon, after all."

"But if you had to guess?"

"If I had to guess, it's bad," Martin admits. "I want to think that the statement helped, but I haven't heard from him in a while, and he knows I was worried." That sets Tim on edge a bit. Jon is reckless, sure, but he knows how much Martin worries, and he doesn't like to let that drag on. "He seemed sort of... out of it, earlier. Like he was having trouble focusing. I was going to help him home."

Tim shakes his head. "You go ahead, Martin," he instructs lightly. "I'll make sure Jon gets home." 

"You're sure?" 

Tim rests a reassuring hand on Martin's shoulder and smiles that blinding smile of his. "I'll text you if things get hairy, but I think I can handle him." 

Martin hesitates, but he trusts Tim, and more than that, he's tired. He’ll never understand how Jon pulls these long hours.

"Call if you need anything," Martin says as he's ushered out the door. "I'll come right back."

"Yeah, I've got it. Text when you're home." 

"I know. One more thing? Jon might be--erm, agitated, for lack of a better term. Try to be gentle with him, please?" 

Tim blinks for a moment, then nods. "Uh, yeah, sure. I will."

Once Martin is finally on the other side of the door, Tim sighs, wondering if he really has to go check on Jon and deciding that Martin's trust is more valuable than his already-tense relationship with Jon. He knows that Martin worries, but this seems different, somehow. Rather than fussing, Martin had sounded... scared, and that makes him just the slightest bit nervous. 

Oh, well, he thinks; he knows how this is going to go. He'll burst into the archive storage, find Jon still recording, apologize, get chewed out for his mistake, and hear about it later from Elias. God, if Martin hadn't looked so genuinely nervous, he wouldn't think it worth the trouble.

Since he’s got other things to do today, Tim decides to get being chewed out by Jon out of the way first. He doesn’t bother knocking on the archive storage room door before he tosses it open and freezes in the doorway with surprise when he sees Jon sitting at the table with his head down. Jon flinches at the sound of the door, but doesn’t pick his head up to see who’s entered. 

“Go away, Martin,” he snaps, words muffled by the sleeve of cardigan he’s not bothering to lift his face from. 

“Oh, you would be so lucky,” Tim says, and Jon tenses. He still doesn’t look up. 

“Where’s…?”

Tim frowns. “I sent Martin home. He’s been here all day.” 

Jon makes a small, affirmative noise and says nothing else. 

“I’m only here because he told me to check up on you. He was worried you were ill. I figured it was just Martin being, well, Martin, but it looks like he was right.” 

Jon doesn’t say anything. Half a cup of tea has gone cold on the table in front of him, and two pieces of untouched toast, likely an unsolicited gift from Martin, have actually been pushed off the table and onto the floor. Tim deduces that Jon must have shoved the statement away from himself, since the folder is at the corner of the table, pieces of paper messily stacked inside. 

“Reading didn’t help?” 

“Made it worse,” Jon admits. 

“And what exactly is… this?” 

Jon hesitates. “Tim, you don’t have to—”

“I promised. Martin, remember?” 

“You can leave. I won’t tell.” Tim doesn’t move. He sighs again, shaky and miserable. “I’m not sure. Head’s splitting.” 

Tim hums in understanding and crosses to the table slowly. “How long?”

“What time is it?” 

“Almost 8.” 

“What are you even doing here?”

“Don’t deflect with paranoia.” Jon actually winces, and even though he knows it’s totally warranted, Tim feels guilty about having said it. “So, how long?” 

Jon shrugs. “All day, I suppose, but the headache has only been so bad for a few hours.” Jon is shivering and Tim resists the urge to put his hand on his back. 

“Daisy has paracetamol in her desk. I’ll bring you some, then we’ll see about moving, yeah?” 

It speaks volumes that Jon doesn’t object, and that fact puts a bit of urgency into Tim’s step. He finds the pills and fills a cup with water before returning to Jon. 

“Can you sit up?” he asks. Predictably, Jon does so immediately, likely to prove a point that he’s not so indisposed that he can’t even sit up of his own volition, a point which falls flat when he sways in his chair so abruptly that Tim has to actually steady him. This close, he can feel heat pouring off him, see the pallor and flush in his face. “Jesus, Jon. You’ve really got it bad.” 

Jon takes the pills with a long sip of water. “Thought it would get better after a statement.” 

“I think it’s more likely you caught the flu that Daisy was out with last week. Mixed with the fact that you’re rubbish at taking care of yourself.” A breath from Jon, shaky and weak, softens Tim. “Right. You’re definitely not riding the tube in this shape, so let’s get you to the cot.” 

Jon is positively radiating when he dips under his arm to support him getting up, and by the time they get to the cot, Tim is supporting most of his weight. His knees buckle just in time for Tim to ease him onto the cot, and even though he’s stopped shivering, the first thing he reaches for is the blanket. When he’s covered up sufficiently, he tosses one arm over his eyes to block out the light. 

“Sorry about all this,” he mumbles, so quietly that Tim isn’t sure he’s meant to have heard it. “About the trouble.”

“Jon, of all the things you could be fucking apologizing for,” Tim can’t help but snap, “accepting help when you need it for once in your life isn’t one of them.” Jon doesn’t look convinced. “There’s no reason to have let it get this bad, you know,” he reminds him. “Any sensible person would have gone to a clinic well before the fever dehydrated them badly enough to induce a migraine.”

Jon nods, scolded, and Tim doesn’t feel much like comforting him. However, he can’t stand to watch him lie here in pain. He leaves the room without a word, and when he returns, it’s with a wet washcloth, which he presses to Jon’s forehead. 

“You’re roasting,” he mutters, his fingertips brushing the hot skin of Jon’s face as he settles the cloth into place. “I’m going to get you some water. Then I’ve got work to do.” 

Jon nods. “Of course.” 

He bites his lower lip. “But if you’re feeling worse, don’t…” he sighs. “Just don’t make me worry more than you already do, alright? I’ll just be a shout away. Or a text, if it’s easier, but I imagine you can’t look at a screen right now.” 

“Thank you, Tim,” Jon says, and while he doesn’t particularly want to reply to that, either, it’s better than the apology. 

“Yeah. Go to sleep.” 

He’s not sure if Jon obeys, because he leaves and doesn’t turn around. 

He remembers a time when he might have brought his work into the room and sat by the bed, knowing that Jon will have nightmares even worse than his usual from the fever and not wanting him to be alone when he wakes up, knowing that Jon will probably not be drinking water if searching for the cup means he’ll have to open his eyes to the light, knowing that Jon has no idea when he took paracetamol and won’t know when to take another dose to keep the fever in check. 

He wishes he wanted to do all that, still; wishes he even wanted someone ELSE to do any of that. 

But he sits outside the door, which is, he supposes, good enough. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> guess who added an angsty finale!!

Tim doesn’t want to check on Jon before he leaves, but even so, he can’t quite bring himself to go without at least making sure he’s still alive in there. He stands in front of the coat rack, not quite able to leave but unwilling to stay, until a text from Martin twists his arm. 

“How’s Jon doing?” 

Of course, he thinks; predictable that sweet, lovable Martin would anticipate this struggle and give him an easy way out of it. With a sigh, Tim types out a text telling him he’s about to go check, then forces himself in the direction of the spare room where he’d left Jon a few hours ago. 

It is a bit weird, he thinks, that he hasn’t heard from Jon at all since he put him to bed. When he’d first felt the fever radiating off him, he’d immediately factored in at least two hours of his work day lost to having to wrestle Jon back into lying down every time he found him trying to work. However, he hasn’t made so much as a peep the whole time. 

He tells himself that makes sense--that if Jon is going to push himself until he’s ill and then read a statement on top of that, of course he’s going to crash hard afterwards. Every time the eeriness of silence begins to make him nervous enough to think about peeking in on him, he convinces himself that the reason he’s not doing that is because Jon needs the sleep and not because if he wakes Jon, he’ll have to talk to him. 

It’s easier to care when he can say that it’s Martin’s worry, not his own, that’s twisting his stomach and making his heart beat faster when he enters the spare room to see that Jon has been sick in a bin that he’s moved right in front of the cot.

He hadn’t really been confident that Jon would actually come get him if he’d felt worse--partially because of the obvious trust issues and partially because he’s not sure that Jon could really get up if he’d tried. 

Damn. He should have checked on him. 

That’s okay, he thinks--migraines can trigger nausea, but more concerning than that is the fact that the cup of water he’d left on the table beside the cot is untouched, as are the two pills he’d left out, meaning that while he’d been coherent enough to get the bin, he’d not drank anything, and without any medicine in him, the fever is likely at least as high as it had been earlier. 

Jon is sleeping, or maybe unconscious, and doesn’t stir when Tim opens the door and calls out his name. 

He can see the rise and fall of his chest, labored but steady. Jon is breathing. 

“Alright, I think you’ve slept long enough,” Tim announces mostly to himself. He crouches down next to Jon and holds both his wrists in his hand to prevent the inevitable lashing out that will result from his next move, which is to shake him awake with his other hand (when did Jon’s wrists get so thin he could roughly hold them both in one hand?), calling his name. 

Jon doesn’t actually react how he expects him to. Rather than the startled, borderline hostile awakening that he tends to do when someone enters his office after he’s fallen asleep at his desk, this is slow, sluggish, even, and when he finally is awake, his gaze is drowsy and bleary. 

“Hey, Jon,” he tries, frowning when it seems like Jon really has to struggle to focus his gaze. “How’s the headache?” Jon just stares at him, blinking, like he’s got no idea what they’re talking about. He seems to be coherent enough to sit up, so Tim just moves on past the ignored question. “I told you to drink this,” he continues, grabbing the full cup of water from the table beside them and holding it out for Jon. “You said you’d drink it before you fell asleep.” 

Once more, Jon just sort of… doesn’t react. This time, it doesn’t make Tim angry. 

He takes out his phone and sends a text to Martin, who calls him not even 30 seconds later. 

“What do you mean, he’s worse?” Martin asks in lieu of a greeting. Tim steps away from Jon to take the call, pressing the cup into his hands. 

“Drink this,” he commands again, gently this time. He sighs, running a tired hand through his hair. He should be at home right now, having a drink to offset the stress of the day and to help him reset the sleep schedule he’s effectively ruined with the late shift he’d requested in order to make a few calls to statement-givers who now lived in different time zones. “Hey, Martin. Sorry.” 

“Tim, what’s going on? Is Jon okay? Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine,” he replies reflexively. “Jon is… I think he’s really ill. I might end up taking him to A&E.” 

“The migraine is still that bad?” 

“No, I think that’s a little better. But the fever has to be dangerous.”

“How high is it?”

Tim runs a hand through his hair. “I have no idea. He won’t let me touch him.” 

“There’s a thermometer in the first aid kit. Do you think he’d let you take his temperature?” 

He almost laughs, not because it’s funny, but because he has no idea what else to do. “I don’t think Jon would let me do that even if he were firing on all cylinders.” 

“Maybe the fever will get him to let his guard down?” 

“Or it’ll make him more hostile than ever.” 

Tim can hear shuffling on the other end of the phone. “I’m going to come help, alright? I’ll have to get a cab, so it might be a bit, but—”

“Martin, no,” Tim curtails despite that he desperately wants the help. He can’t in good conscience ask Martin to do something that he just doesn’t want to be bothered to deal with. “I can handle Jon. I’ll find the kit and I’ll call you back in ten, alright?” 

Martin is clearly hesitant, but he’s also very tired, and the night is cold and cabs are scarce at this hour. “If I don’t hear from you in fifteen minutes, I’m coming up to help.” 

“I promise I’ll call. Try not to worry.” 

He hangs up the phone and looks back to Jon, who hasn’t touched the water and is, in fact, spilling it into his lap as it’s resting in lax hands in his lap and sloshing over the sides every time a particularly vicious shiver cuts through him. He doesn’t seem bothered when Tim takes the cup away and sets it back on the table, glad he’s taken it before he drinks it and throws off the thermometer reading but also disconcerted at the fact that Jon isn’t coherent enough to have even followed that simple instruction. 

“I’ll be back in a moment, okay? Don’t move.” 

Jon just nods. 

He can’t remember the last time he felt this bad. It’s difficult to keep track of thoughts of any sort, though, so perhaps he’s just not remembering properly. 

Still, judging by Tim’s reaction (namely, the fact that Tim was even giving him the time of day, never mind bringing him water and helping him to bed), he thinks maybe it’s a bit serious. 

It’s quiet; he’s alone. He’s always alone. He’d done this to himself alone and now he is going to die alone in the Institute itself--can something be so predictable that it feels like a surprise, as if after everything life has thrown at him, that his death couldn’t possibly be so cliché? 

Tim throwing open the door once more drags him from his thoughts and he tries his best to focus, because he’s speaking, now, probably to Jon, but the feeling is similar to that of trying to overhear a conversation at a loud party--the effort of listening itself drowns out the words, and if Tim were to ask him what he’s just said, the only thought he might be able to come up with is, “listen, damn it, Tim is talking to you.” 

“Jon, stop--stop doing that. Stay with me.” 

Jon doesn’t quite understand what he means by that because he hasn’t gone anywhere; he’s right here, or at least, he thinks he is. He nods, hoping that’s an answer--was he asked a question?--and realizes that his eyes had slipped closed at some point during their conversation, and perhaps that’s what Tim is so mad about. 

“I need you to keep this under your tongue. Just a few seconds.” Tim tries to put a thermometer into his mouth, but Jon fights it, shoving his arms away with the sort of fear he knows, KNOWS makes Tim angry, but still, he can’t stop it happening. He thinks he’s apologizing, but with his mouth numb as it is and his ears ringing, he could be saying anything. Or nothing.

“Please, come on. You’re so ill; I need you to work with me.” 

Ill. He’s ill. Is that why he’s in the spare room, on the cot?

Martin’s cot. Shit, has he forced Martin out? Where has he gone; where is he staying?

“Martin,” Jon says, feeling frustrated when Tim seems not to know what he means. 

“I’m not—”

“I know,” Jon snaps. He might not have the energy for much, but an irritated attitude is a priority. “I’m--this is his— he can't go back to--the worms?” 

It’s disjointed, but Tim manages. “That was months ago, remember? He’s been going home again. He’s fine.” 

Jon shakes his head, tries to get up but everything feels bitterly cold and horribly like it’s spinning and Tim’s hands are stronger than they have any right to be when they push him down against the cot. 

“Martin is fine,” Tim reassures. He reaches for the thermometer again, but the fear in Jon’s face has him stopping, and apologies begin tumbling out of Jon’s mouth again. “Stop, Jon, stop,” Tim commands, gently this time. He turns and fiddles with his phone for a minute and Jon only catches half of the conversation. 

“Hey. No, he won’t let me--yeah, I know. He’s just… in a state, thinks the worms are back. Nothing I’m saying is reaching him. I think he’d be calmer hearing your voice. Maybe.” 

A pause, then Jon is being handed the phone. 

“It’s Martin,” Tim says. “He wants to talk to you.” 

Jon takes the phone, droops forward dangerously for a moment, and when he feels more balanced, he distantly registers that Tim is holding the phone to his ear and Jon is only upright because his forehead is pressed against Tim’s shoulder. 

“You’re a goddamn furnace,” Tim curses, but Jon ignores it, because Martin is calling his name. 

“Hi,” Jon greets, his voice feeling thick and sticky with relief. 

“Hi,” Martin returns. “I hear you’re feeling quite poorly.” Jon tries to make a noise of dismissal, but it comes out more like a groan. “I know. I’m so sorry, Jon, but Tim really needs to take your temperature.”

“I don’t—”

“Please, don’t argue with me on this. If Tim can’t find out how high your temperature is, we’re going to have to call an ambulance.” 

Jon tries to process what he’s being asked, but nothing feels quite like it’s really happening. The only thing he knows is that Martin’s voice is here, and it makes him feel better than he has in several hours. 

“Will you stay?” he asks. He doesn’t even register just how much he’d hate himself for this on the off chance he remembers in the morning. 

“Of course. I’ll keep talking to you the whole time. I’m not going anywhere until you tell me to.” 

“Okay.” 

Tim takes that as his cue to move in with the thermometer again, careful to ensure that Jon can see his hands at all times and that his movements are slow and deliberate, like he’s trying not to startle a wild animal. 

It’s really not as bad as he’d thought it would be. He has no idea why he’d been so frightened. The thermometer is set gently under his tongue and not pushed once it’s there. It doesn’t burn him or eat a hole in him or stop him breathing. It doesn’t turn to sand or spiders in his mouth and doesn’t burrow through his head. And Martin keeps talking, he’s not sure what about--he might even just be describing the plot of the game show he’s watching--but it’s nice enough just to hear him speak. Tim is silent until the thermometer beeps, then he takes it out and his quiet calm demeanor is gone again. He doesn’t ask before he takes the phone away from Jon and leaves him sitting on the cot alone and absolutely freezing once more. 

Jon forces himself to listen because he has to know what is so important that he can’t talk to Martin anymore. 

“40.2,” Tim says, his voice dark and panicked. “I should have checked on him.” 

His energy is fading quickly, now that Tim has pulled away and left him to have to sit up all by himself, and the last thing he registers before the black dots encroach his vision entirely is the distant question of whether Tim’s rushed lunge toward him will reach him before the rapidly-approaching floor beneath the cot as he tips forward again. 

Jon wakes, predictably, in a hospital. He’s tempted to tear at the IV in his arm, fearful immediately of who might have put it there and what might be inside it, but he stops when Martin, sitting in a chair against the wall in his room, shakes Tim from sleep. 

“Jon, you’re awake,” Martin greets too cheerfully for someone who has likely been sleeping sitting up for the past few hours. “How are you feeling?” 

“What happened?” he ignores the question. Tim rolls his eyes. 

“You caught the flu and nearly gave Martin a heart attack about it,” he snaps. Jon blinks in surprise. As much as he tries to remember, nothing comes back to him. 

“Seriously, Jon, how do you feel? You still look awful. Should I--should I get a nurse?” 

“No, Martin,” Jon replies. “Thank you. I’m... “ he wants to say fine, but both a withering glare from Martin and the fact that he truly DOES feel as though he’s been run flat by a car stop him from doing so. “Well, I don’t feel GREAT,” he manages to admit, “but better than before. At least, I think so.” 

“Well, you wouldn’t know, would you?” Tim bites. “Considering you’ve been out of your mind for the past half a day. The doctors say they have no idea why your temperature got as high as it did--topped out at 40.5, if you were wondering--but Martin and I are pretty sure that it’s got something to do with the fact that when you felt like shit, you decided to read a statement instead of having some Lemsip and a nap.” 

“Are you… angry with me?” Jon wagers, and Tim glares at him. 

“I told you to come get me if you started feeling worse,” Tim snaps. “A fever like that doesn’t just come from nowhere.” Jon looks down at his hands in embarrassment. “That’s on me, too, though--I should have known that you wouldn’t trust me enough to do that.” 

Jon feels embarrassment tint his cheeks pink. 

“Tim, I’m--I don’t even remember any of that conversation. When I woke up, I knew I needed--but I looked at the clock and it was so late. I forgot you were still here at all.” 

Now, it’s Tim’s turn to look scolded. “So you were,” he starts, “God. What’s the last thing you remember?” 

He searches his mind and finds that not an easy question to answer, as his memory of the past day (has it been more than that?) is hazy and not linear, jumping around from the archive room to the spare cot with no real recollection of anything in between, a fuzzy glimpse of waking up so cold that he’d been sure he was already dead, some kind of worm nonsense that might have been a dream. 

“It’s all somewhat...” he hesitates. His head is still sore, but more of a dull ache than a splitting agony. All his bones ache, and he feels heavy and tired and dirty with sweat. “It’s a bit difficult to remember, exactly. I remember Martin dropping off tea and a statement, and I read it. At least, I think I read it. That’s when things start to get muddled.” 

“You read a little over half,” Martin chimes in. He blushes when Jon and Tim turn to look at him inquisitively. “I listened to the tape to, to see whether anything had happened that we should know about. You got through about half before you muttered something about having a headache and needing to lie down, and then it sounded--it sounded like you just passed out right there, but I think you might have just not been able to move.” 

Jon finds that embarrassing in a way that Tim and Martin don’t seem to, and that feeling is something he’s missed for a long time: the feeling that the worst thing that either of them could say about him is that he’s a bit stuffy, too formal and afraid of a good time. 

“Right. Does that timeline help at all?”

Tim is pale and avoiding his eyes. “Yeah,” he mumbles. “I, uh. It means that I should have known you were far too ill for me to leave you alone from the moment I dragged your arse out of the archives.” 

“This isn’t your fault—” 

“No, it’s not,” Tim snaps, “it’s--God, Jon. I don’t know whose fault it is. Yours? Elias’? The goddamn Institute? I’m so fucking angry and I don’t even know who I’m angry WITH.” 

Jon looks down at his own hands despite that Tim is pointedly not looking at him. 

“I know the feeling,” he confides. “And it is… partially my fault. A lot of it is, really. So, you aren’t wrong to blame me, if you do.” 

“Of course I do.” 

“Right,” Jon says. The answer he’d expected, but not the one he’d hoped for. “And I think… I know there’s something about the Institute, too. Something wrong. Something different. I know you think I’m paranoid, but I HAVE to figure it out. And if it means burning all my bridges… Well, at least you’ll live to hate me.” 

Martin stands up, elbowing himself between Jon and Tim. “This is a conversation you two need to have,” he admits, “but Jon, you’re getting your heart rate up. They’ve gotten you pumped full of fluids and your brain isn’t pan-frying in your skull anymore, but you’re still not recovered.” 

“Sorry,” Tim and Jon both fumble out at the same time. “

After a beat, Martin seems satisfied. “I’m going to get tell a nurse that Jon’s awake. You need something to eat. Don’t--just don’t kill each other while I’m gone.” 

Martin doesn’t close the door all the way behind him, but still, in the relative privacy, Tim lets his shoulders relax and sinks into the chair. 

“I’m sorry I got angry,” he says, though he sounds more like a child apologizing for hitting his sibling under the watchful gaze of their parents than a repentant friend.

“You have every right.” 

Tim shakes his head. “You really did have me worried, you know. I’ve known you a while, and seen you hurt, exhausted, ill. But I’ve never seen you like that.”

Jon shudders to think of it. “I’ve never felt like that, either,” he admits. “I’m sorry that I… made everything difficult. That I MAKE everything difficult.”

“Don’t apologize,” Tim says, now locking his gaze onto Jon’s with intent. “Just stop doing it.” 

Jon just pretends he has a choice and rests his tired eyes again. 


End file.
